


...See no Evil

by madefornight



Series: Deducing Tragedy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blind Character, F/M, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madefornight/pseuds/madefornight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who is this?” John rolled his eyes, “Sherlock this is Hanna, my new flat mate, the kinder, blind, woman version of you.” Hanna Hooper is the sister of Sherlock’s’ favorite pathologist. While he finds Molly perfectly transparent, Hanna remains the perfect mystery to him. (Sherlock/OC)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not Helpless

“You knew him well.”

She paused, her fingers clinking against the coffee cup in her hands. “I like to think so.”

“What does that mean?” I scoffed, as one of my cats jumped up next to me.

“Well I guess you never really know someone,” she said shifting in her seat, causing the leather to groan. “I never in my wildest dreams thought he would- well that he’d do what he did.”

“But you knew him, that’s something. I would have loved to meet him,” I said leaning back in my love seat, running my fingers through the soft fur of the creature beside me.

“If I didn’t know differently I would say knew him better,” she let out a small laugh. “You could predict his every move.” She said and I rolled my eyes.

“I certainly didn’t predict him jumping off a building,” I smirked around the rim of my coffee mug.

“You know what I mean,” she said setting her cup down on my coffee table with a loud clank. “You told me, ‘Molly, watch him. He’s going to do something brilliant and incredibly stupid’ and you were right.”

“Molly, I was nothing but a fan girl,” I chuckled.

“But I could never do what you did Hanna,” she sighed.

“Well I am a certified genius,” I shrugged as I stood up and held out a hand. “Here, I’ll get you some more.”

“Thank you,” she said placing the ceramic cup firmly in my hands. I walked into my kitchen and grabbed the coffee pot, burning my fingers on the hot glass as I did.

Always just a little off, I thought, grinding my teeth as I moved my hand up two inches and one to the left. I refilled the cups and walked back into the living room. I held out her cup and she rose slightly to take it from me, the leather of the seat groaning as she moved. I ran my fingers across my seat to be sure that none of my cats had crawled up there while I was gone before I sat down. I placed my coffee cup back on the table and Molly gasped.

“Hanna, your fingers,” she said grabbing a hold of my right hand.

“They’re fine,” I said pulling away. “Its’ not even a real burn, it’ll be gone within the hour.”

“The tips are all red,” she scolded. “I should have gone to get the coffee.”

“It’s my house, Molly,” I rolled my eyes. “I'm supposed to serve you”

She hesitated.

“Just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I'm helpless,” I smiled at her as I withdrew from her grasp.

“Don’t you think you should be living with someone?” she asked.

I frowned, “have something to say?” I challenged her. “Perhaps you’ll clear up why you choose to stop by in the first place. It’s not like you to drop in out of the blue like this Molly, hell I haven’t seen you in nearly a year. So what is it?”

“You need to get out of this house,” she said clasping her hands together like our mother did when we were about to get talked do.

“No,” I snapped back without hesitation.

“Hanna, it’s been five years,” she said in a stern voice, a voice very unlike the one my sister normally used. She was known for her nervous but sweet nature. What could be going on that has changed it, I wondered idly.

“It’s not happening,” I growled.

“It’s for your own good,” she insisted. “Hanna being in this house is killing you- and I will not watch my sister self-destruct.”

“Then what do you suggest?” I asked annoyed now with her persistence.

“I know someone,” she said scooting forward, her voice returning to its natural softness. “He’s a good man, he has accompanied someone as smart as you are-“

“Watson?” I demanded. “Are you mad?”

“I'm not!” she said hurriedly. “He’s a really sweet guy!”

“I know,” I narrowed my eyes, “but that doesn’t make this idea any less absurd.”

“No it’s not,” she insisted, her warm hand reaching forward to squeeze mine. “Think about it Hanna! He’s a good, kind man. He’s a doctor and can help you if something happens. And you’ll be around people! You’ll be in the heart of London… something I know you miss.”

I let out a bitter laugh, “and why is it you’re offering your friend’s house but not your own?”

“Because I know you’d never take my help,” she chuckled nervously as she stood up. “Do this Hanna. You need to get out of this house.”


	2. Hanna Hooper

John sat down in his arm-chair. Across from him, the empty leather seat that Sherlock once occupied. John closed his eyes, remembering standing on the street while his best friend stood on the roof of Saint Bart’s hospitable. That was one year ago and the flat still felt empty. When he sat still for too long or Mrs. Hudson was out and the place was completely quiet, John could almost hear him. Usually in these fantasies Sherlock would berate him about moving his microscope or having Molly take away the body parts he’d been experimenting on. But then there would be a noise or Mrs. Hudson would come up to check on him and it would be gone.

One year had passed and John was managing. He still missed his brilliant and moronic flat mate and part of him still felt that there was still some hope. That the body he helped bury wasn’t real or… something. But that part had shrunk and faded away as time went on.

The phone rang, making him jump and dashed for the receiver. “Yes? Hello,” he asked as that part of him flared up again like it always did when the phone rang.

“John,” Molly’s voice shook over the phone. “Are you ok? Is something wrong?”

“Sorry, just a little jumpy. What do you need?” he said trying not to let himself be disappointed yet again. It wasn’t the bloody consulting detective on the other line; it never would be.

“Well,” she hesitated. “My sister is looking for a new flat in London, and since I know you’re looking for a flat mate I was wondering if she could stop by sometime later today?”

She won’t last more than a month; he thought running his free hand through his hair. “Um yeah, sure- I guess. But I don’t know how well it’ll go. People have been running through here like a train station but none of them have worked out.”

He could almost hear the smile in her voice, “Trust me John; Hanna will be the perfect fit for you. She should be there soon, let me know how it goes.” He nodded slightly and hung up the phone, feeling bad for a moment when he realized that she couldn’t actually see him nod.

“How are you today dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked, standing in the doorway.

“Fine, I'm fine,” he muttered turning towards the fireplace where that stupid skull still sat.

“Ah, well,” She sighed before turning towards the hall. “There is someone here to see you, do you know a Hanna?”

He raised an eyebrow and turned back towards her. “Molly’s sister, yes. Let her in” she nodded and turned but didn’t move.

She made her way through the door, a girl, no more than twenty-five with long white blond hair. She wore big black sunglasses over her eyes that felt out-of-place on her narrow, elf like face. She wore skinny jeans with brown flat boots that came up to her mid-shin. She had on a grey long sleeve shirt and a thin brown vest with a furry hood. Clutched in her hands was a silver walking stick with a swirly design engraved into the sides of it and a large glass orb stuck to the top.

“You must be Hanna,” he said frowning slightly; something was off about this girl that he could quiet place. “Molly literary just called me about you.”

“I know,” she said with a forced smile. “I was waiting outside for her to text me back.”

He let out a hard laugh, “I hope it wasn’t long.”

“Long enough,” she shrugged.

He shifted uncomfortably, “She said you were looking for a flat.”

“My sister tends to miss interrupt things,” she sighed. “I rent a home up north. She thought it would be best if I didn’t live on my own anymore. Something about 'having someone around just in case'.”

“In case?” he asked.

She paused, tilting her head to the side. “You haven’t noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

She paused again, removing her sunglasses and putting them in her pocket. That’s when he realized what had bothered him. Her sunglasses, she wouldn’t need them on such a cloudy day. Her unfocused eyes were the last clue. “You’re blind.”

“As a bat,” she mused. “But don’t think that it’ll be an issue. I only need about an hour in each room to find my way around.”

“Molly sent you here so Mrs. Hudson could take care of you,” he concluded and she shook her head chuckling.

“No, she sent me here so that you could take care of me,” she explained still laughing. “She thinks you need someone to take care of like you took care of Sherlock.”

He raised an eyebrow, “You disagree?” He asked, sobering her laughter.

“I know you need someone to take care of,” She shrugged and John frowned. “I don’t need to be cared for.”

He paused a moment, “You don’t?”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes; an almost offended tone colored her voice. “People think that because I'm blind I need help, I don’t.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Ok, ok. If you say so.”

“I do,” she snapped and he realized that she didn’t see him raise his hands. “It doesn't matter, we have to go. Lestrade is expecting us in ten minutes.”

“Lestrade?” he raised an eyebrow. “Expecting us- wha- why?”

“Because I called in a favor,” she said, her voice growing more annoyed. “He owes me. Now, if twenty questions are over, let’s go.” her tone was cold and final as she turned to walk down the hall.

“Whoa, wait,” John called, gathering his jacket before running after the surprisingly spry blind girl. He barely caught up with her, making it out the door just before her cabby drove off. He muttered his apology to the driver before turning to look expectantly at Hanna.

She didn’t say anything but stared blankly ahead. He waited a few more moments waiting for her to say something before he remembered. She’s blind; she doesn’t know that he is staring at her. He turned his head to look out of the window only to hear an angry sigh from Hanna.

“You did it again John,” she said turning to face him.

“Did what?” he asked slightly annoyed.

“You’re treating me different,” she said. “You were angry with me for running out like I did. You waited for me to say something but when you remember I was blind you dropped it. Do not do that.”

“What do you want me to do,” he asked.

“I don’t want you to let me off the hook,” she said simply. “If you are angry with me then say something. If it was Sherlock you would have laid into him-“

“-And he would have ignored me-“

“-the point is!” she spoke over him, “You wouldn’t have let him get away with it without saying something, would you?”

He let out a frustrated breath. “It’s just-“

“What John?” she demanded, “What is it? Just spit it out already!”

“I don’t know how to act around you,” he shouted. “I’ve never met a blind person before, I don’t what to do.”

She shook her head and sighed. “You’ll learn as we go along but for now, just treat me like a normal person until I tell you otherwise.” The rest of the ride was a quiet one. Hanna’s face was turned towards the window. John watched her, her blue eyes staring blankly out at the window as London passed them by. There was something sad in those eyes, something he knew she wasn’t ready to talk to him about.

The cab pulled over and Hanna got out swiftly. John paid the cabby and stepped out to the pavement. Up the road he saw the flashing light and uniforms of the police as they kept the crowd at bay. He started up the road to see what had happened when he noticed Hanna hanging back.

“Are you ok?” he asked walked back towards her.

She shifted uncomfortably. “My glasses,” she started her hand reaching around in her pockets of her vest. “I think I they fell out while we were in the cab.”

“Well you don’t really need them,” he shrugged and she pursed her lips.

“No I don’t need them,” she muttered. “It’s just sort of...” she trailed off shaking her head. “Never mind let's go,” she held out her hand and he raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked looking from her hand to her face.

She smirked slightly. “It’ll go quicker if you guide me. There are people around who could bump me and knock me over. People are much too busy now days to take notice of the little things like the blind girl coming up the pavement.”

He sighed taking her hand, “So why do the blind wear sunglasses?” he asked as they made their way to the flashing lights.

“It because we know that it makes ‘normal’ people feel more comfortable around us,” she said with a shrug. “It helps them figure out we’re blind and covers our eyes which freak some people out.”

“Why do you wear sunglasses?”

“Isn’t that the same question?”

“In your answer you kept saying ‘we’ and ‘us’,” he shrugged. “Sounded rather rehearsed to me, like the answer you give but not necessarily the truth.”

She smiled, “I guess living with Mr. Holmes rubbed off on you.”

“I like to think so."

She chuckled. “But to answer your question: I wear sunglasses… to hide.”

“Hide?” he frowned, “from what?” She didn’t answer and John knew that the conversation was over.

They walked up to the yellow tape and John waved down Lestrade. “John,” the man greeted holding the tape up for them to pass through. “And Hanna,” he said taking her arm to guide her under the tape. “It’s good to see you, how long has it been?”

“Five years and eighty-one days,” Hanna shrugged before stepping back over to John and taking his hand. “But who’s counting?”

“Yeah, right,” Lestrade sighed running a hand through his hair. “Well shall we go inside then?” he asked before leading them into the old building.


	3. Theory of a Dead Girl

John looked between Hanna and Lestrade, one eyebrow raised but he asked no questions. They walked up the stairs into the apartment; a woman was sprawled across a torn and dirty rug. John took his usual spot along the wall and Hanna frowned from the door frame. “John? Why are you standing there? I need your help.”

“Me?” he frowned looking at her. “What could you need my help with?”

“I'm blind you fool,” she said with a large amount of sass as she rolled her eyes dramatically. “I need you to see for me.”

“How?” he asked.

“Describe the scene, leave nothing out,” she said simply as she rested against the door. John frowned looking at Lestrade who shrugged. “Boys, enough of the silent communication, we don’t have all day.”

John jumped looked at her with wide eye as a smirk crossed her lips. “Don’t question it, John. Just move.”

Shock still lingered as he approached the dead woman and began his examination. “She’s young, probably early twenties-“

“Nineteen,” Lestrade said. “According to her identification.”

“Lestrade, do not speak unless spoken too,” Hanna said quietly before motioning for John to continue.

“Right, well,” John said looking between the two. “Looks like strangulation; her throat is bruised beyond belief.”

“What is she wearing?”

“What?”

“Come on John,” she persisted. “I'm not asking you to sleep with her, just tell me what she’s wearing.”

He shifted, tossing Lestrade and uncomfortable glance. “A small skirt-“

“Details!” she urged.

He let out a frustrated breath, “A very small leather skirt, so small that I can clearly tell she isn’t wearing any nickers.”

“Good, continue.”

“A black lacy camisole-“

“Really?”

“Yes and a dark blue lace bra,” He continued looking over the girl in front of her. “She has blue eye shadow on and a ruby lipstick.”

“What about her hair?”

“Up in a ponytail,” he shrugged. “Curled, clearly dyed blond; her roots are showing.”

“Natural color?”

“Red head.”

“Hmm,” she was silent for a moment. “What about shoes?”

He looked around, “Not wearing any and I don’t see them in the room.”

“Lestrade?” she asked cocking her head in the detectives direction.

“They were found on the stairs,” he said.

“Tossed aside as they made their way up here,” she sighed heavily. “There is another room to this apartment, yes?”

“Yes,” John said. “A bedroom why?”

“Get the name of the tenant,” she said with a thoughtful frown. “it’ll be a fake but we don’t want any loose ends that will let this man walk.”

“What are you on about?” John asked.

“There isn’t much here,” she said. “Furniture wise, am I right?”

“A rug and an old bed,” Lestrade said.

“It’s a sex cave,” she said with a humorless laugh. “He goes out finds a girl, brings her back here and then proceeds to rape her-”

“But if she’s willingly fallowing him here… that’s not rape,” John said raising an eyebrow.

“No, that is not necessarily rape,” she sighed again. “But he has a fantasy to play out, not one any woman would willingly entertain… this girl is just like the others you’ve found.”

“But she was strangled,” Lestrade said. “Not stabbed like them.”

“Because she wasn’t like the others,” She said moving around the body and towards the window.

“Others?” John asked.

“Five women all stabbed to death in less than two weeks,” Lestrade said. “How did you know about that Hanna? We left cause of death out of the papers”

“My sister is your pathologist,” she whispered, his sightless eyes looking out across the evening sky.

“So why do you think she’s another victim?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes, turning back to them, “She’s dressed as a party girl, her hair is dyed blond and she was found in a sex cave; the same as all the others.”

“But you said she was different,” John pointed out. “How?”

“The other girls are all between the ages of eighteen and twenty two,” she said

John frowned, “And she’s nineteen-“

“Sixteen,” she cut him off. “I’m almost positive she’s sixteen.”

Lestrade gives her a skeptical look. “What makes you say that?”

“The clothes,” Hanna said gesturing to the body. “She’s wearing a little girls’ interpretation of a party girls outfit.”

“What makes you say that?”

She gave them a sad smile, “she’s wearing a bra.”

The man paused, “Okay but maybe she’s just not a party girl, why is she sixteen.”

“Ruby lipstick doesn’t go well with that shade of blue, only a teenager with limited resources would make that choice. There for she’s not his type and cannot fulfill the role he desires, he realizes that and gets angry. When she’s dead he takes his souvenir and leaves.”

“Souvenir?”

“Her nickers,” she said. “Do you really think she would leave the house with a bra but without her nickers?”

John looked at her from his spot near the body with wide eyes. “That was… amazing.”

“Yes well,” she shrugged shifting uneasily. “It’s only a theory; Lestrade can make do with it as he wishes.”

“Sounds good enough to me,” he said.

“Right then,” she turned towards John holding out her hand. “Let’s go.”

This time he didn’t hesitate in taking it and leading her out of the building with Lestrade fallowing them closely. John called a cabby and helped Hanna inside. “A word, John?” Lestrade asked and he nodded.

“What is it?”

“Hanna,” he said.

“What about her?”

“I just want to make sure she’s taken care of,” the taller man said with a serious look.

John raised an eyebrow, “I noticed a little tension between the two of you.”

“Yes well you’d have to be blind and dumb not to,” Lestrade scoffed looking at his feet.

“Mind telling me what that was about?”

Lestrade looked into John’s eyes and shrugged, “It’s not my story to tell, it’s hers.”

John nodded slowly, “Right.”

Lestrade laughed once, without humor, “You are always so loyal to people you barely know. First Sherlock and now Hanna-“

“What’s your point?” he asked annoyed.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Lestrade shrugged, “You’re a good man John. Take care of her; she needs it more than she lets on.”


	4. A Study of Text

The text came in around an hour after Lestrade saw John and Hanna drive off, back to their flat. He watched them go, making sure nothing happened while he could do something about it. Shaking his head he turned back towards the crime scene. Hanna was right; he knew it, just like when he knew Sherlock was right. This unfortunately meant he would have to tell some poor girl’s family that she was dead. Sometimes he hated his job.

The girl is 16

He looked at the text and raised an eyebrow. Why did Hanna text him? He’d just been with her and she’d told him face to face. As he went to reply asking her about it he noticed something at the bottom.

-SH

That made him freeze. Sherlock? What-but- no! It was impossible! His own brother confirmed his death, Sherlock Holmes was dead, but here was a text saying otherwise. No, it was an imposter that all it could be. But how did they know about the girl? How did they know that the girl was sixteen when the story wasn’t even released yet? Better yet, if it was Sherlock, then how did he manage to sneak onto the scene and off again without anyone noticing?

He waved down a cabby leaving Donavan to take care of the scene. He needed help with this, with the only smart enough to rival Sherlock Holmes or his impostor.

~

John watched Hanna, from the archway of the kitchen, as she slowly made her way around the living room. Her walking stick was set against the wall near the door to the hall and her vest was hung up next to his. He watched as her tiny hands touched everything. Her fingers running along the back of Sherlock’s leather chair, glossing over the immense collections books most of which he’d never read.

“John can I get a cup of tea?” she asked suddenly as she pulled out her phone from her pocket. She put in the ear buds and clicked a button. Standing there for a moment she rolls her eyes as she wrapped the cord back around the cell and put it back into her pocket. “John, the tea?” she inquired.

“Sure, sure,” he said turning into the kitchen and putting the kettle on. As he walked back to the living room he felt his phone vibrate and pulled it out to see a new message from an unknown number as well as a message from Lestrade.

I'm on my way over, I need to speak to Hanna. –Lestrade

Over my dead body, John thought sitting down in his chair before scrolling over to the other message. He was about to open it when the doorbell rang.

“That’ll be Lestrade,” Hanna said without turning away from the fireplace she was no in front of. “Let him in John, I’ll speak with him”

“Are you sure?” he asked standing up as he pocketed his phone.

“Yes,” she smiled turning her head towards him. Her unfocused blue eyes looking glancing over him and he sighed. She would never stair at him, never see him. Never see anything for that matter.

“John,” she smirked before turning back. “The door, don’t keep the inspector waiting.” He nodded and walked out the hall and down the stairs. He opened the door just before Mrs. Hudson got to it and smiled at her to go back inside.

“John,” the man on the other side greeted him before moving as if to enter the building.

“Listen very closely,” John said in a low tone. “The only reason I'm letting you in is because Hanna said it was alright. The moment I feel like you’re upsetting her, I will tell you to leave-“

“I got-“

“And you will leave,” John said, his cold eyes sending chills down the other man’s spine. He nodded and John moved aside. When he reentered the room Hanna was seated in Sherlock’s old chair. Normally he would have protested when someone sat there but it seemed that Hanna fit perfectly in the spot vacated by his old friend.

“Hello Lestrade,” she greeted him with a nod. “I understand you have a message for me”

“I do.”

“John?” she asked. “Why are you still here?”

The man frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Did you get your message?” she asked raising an eyebrow. Still frowning he pulled out his phone and opened the message.


	5. Cause and Effect

I heard John suddenly run to the door, grabbing his coat and knocking over my walking stick in the process. He hastily picked it up before running into the hall and down the stairs. With a smirk I turned back to Lestrade. “Before you speak, would you mind getting the kettle? John forgot about it in his haste.”

“The kettle?” he asked just as it went off. Five minutes to boil exactly, I was really getting too good at this game. He pulled it off the stove and set it aside to cool before returning to take Johns seat.

“So,” I said as he sat down. “Why are you here?”

“You know.”

“I have a guess,” I mused. “A text from the dead.”

“Yes.”

“Or an impostor,” I reasoned. “But you already thought about that.”

“An impostor… is the reasonable assumption,” he said, his voice rough with stress.

“And yet here you are.”

He sighed, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. “Am I crazy? Is this an impostor?”

“You know the answer to that Lestrade,” I scoffed turning away from him.

“But it’s impossible!” He shouted standing up suddenly. “He’s dead! I saw the body!”

“As did his brother, as did John- who also saw him jump, I might add- my sister also saw the body, so did your partner and Anderson,” I said in a soft voice, so I didn’t agitate him. “And yet he lives.”

“That can’t be,” however firm his words were his tone was so weak that not even a child would believe him.

“Sherlock Holmes,” I said standing up and walking carefully over to the fire place. “A brilliant man, a mind like a computer. The kind that only comes around once in a generation-“

“-He can’t be-“

“He is,” I said firmly. “Do you really think a mind like his couldn’t find a way out of whatever impossible trap Moriarty put him in? Sherlock is alive, and he’s not entirely happy that you’ve come to me for help.”

When he spoke again it was in defeat, “What makes you say that?”

“He sent me a text like he did you and John,” I said pulling my phone from my pocket and removing the ear buds.

“What is that?” he asked.

“My phone,” I said. “Because I'm blind I can’t read text messages so it reads them too me,” I hit the button on the side.

One saved message, the phone shouted out of its speaker. The blind cannot observe or deduce. You are in over your head….. –SH

Lestrade was quiet for a moment. “He sent that to you?”

“No I wrote it myselfH” I rolled my eyes.

“The sarcasm is a little much don’t you think?” he asked bitterly. “What happened to you Hanna? You were so-“

“That was before,” I cut him off. “Before you ruined everything.”

“That wasn’t my fault!” he shouted. “I did everything-“

“NOT everything,” I corrected him. “Everything is what you do now; you call on help because you know you are hopelessly lost! Before…. Before you were arrogant and thought you knew better than Sherlock. You refused to call him and I lost my sight! So don’t tell me you tired everything Lestrade because we both know that you didn’t.”


	6. Molly Hooper

Sherlock Holmes stood near the window, his phone in hand as he looked over the message again. He had to admit it was mostly out of anger that he sent those texts; anger at Lestrade and John but mostly at the girl. Who did she think she was? That little blind girl trying to observe, to deduce! That was his job, his field of expertise!

The door opened and he turned to see Molly walk in with two bags of groceries. She struggled a bit with the door and he picked up his violin to begin playing. Molly set the bags on the counter in the kitchen and turned an annoyed glare on Sherlock. “Thank you so much for the help Sherlock. It was really, very nice of you.”

“The sarcasm is a little over the top don’t you think?” he mumbled as he continued to play.

“You’re unbelievable,” she growled taking off her jacket at putting it in the closet. She left the closet door open again, he noted as she walked into the kitchen and began putting away the food.

“You’ve been living with me for nearly a year, Molly,” he said setting aside his violin and walking into the kitchen, closing the closet door as he passed. “Surely you’ve come to know this by now.”

“Yeah but sometime I forget,” she muttered bitterly.

“So- bad day at work then?” he asked glancing over the paper bags. She forgot his shampoo again, an act he suspected to be intentional; A punishment for keeping her up very late last night by playing the violin into the morning hours. He couldn’t help it he needed to think, think about the perplexing problem of the fact that the body of the girl had been discovered more than two days ago but they still hadn’t caught the killer. He’d made his first mistake and yet it appeared Lestrade was too incompetent to find anything further.

“Not a good one,” she admitted with a sigh as she ran a stressed hand threw her hair. “A girl, no more than sixteen… her parents came in to identify the body today.”

“How tragic,” he murmured, his thumb raking across his lips as he stared absently at the floor on the other side of the counter. Or perhaps she was punishing him for forgetting to water her plants like he’d promised to. She went around for ages throwing away the dead shrubs and washing the decorative pots they’d been in.

“Now if only you actually meant that,” she rolled her eyes.

“What makes you think I don’t?”

“Sherlock you don’t feel anything that could get in the way of solving a case,” she said putting away the milk and eggs. “Now what do you want for dinner?”

“Who is the girl?” he asked suddenly.

She paused a moment “The girl?” she questioned, surprise coloring her tone. “Her name was Jennifer, Jennifer-“

He waved off her thought, “Not her, the other one!”

“What other one?” she asked grinding her teeth in annoyance.

“The one that is currently living in my flat,” he said, his eyes locked on hers.

He expected her to flinch, to turn away and deny knowing anything about that. He expected little Molly Hooper to blush at being caught and quietly give up all the information he desired. But she didn’t. Molly met his cold accusing gaze with her own icy resistance and Sherlock realized he’d miscalculated. The Molly he was standing face to face with was not the Molly of a year ago. She’d grown since then, learned to brace herself against his gaze which once made her feel helpless. She wasn’t that small blushing school girl like creature he once knew. She was Molly Hooper, the woman made of steal.

“Why would you think I know anything about that?” she asked, her palms flat against the surface that separated them.

“You know why.”

“But do you?” she asked raising an eyebrow. “Has the great Sherlock Holmes lost a step in a year of absence?”

“I haven’t.”

“Then prove it,” she smiled, almost to herself. “Who is the girl?”


	7. A Study in Notes

Sherlock called a cab the next morning, intending on going to Lestrade and straightening out the mess that has become this case. How it still went unsolved was beyond him but he intended to fix it. “Where too?” the man behind the wheel asked as he climbed into the back.

“221 Baker Street,” he said before he could stop himself. Wait, what?

“What was that?” the man asked turning up his hearing aid.

“221 Baker Street,” he said again, surprising himself again but he made no action to fix it. Why was he going to Baker Street, He wondered idly as the cabby drove off. John was at work with Molly, who’d gotten him a job as her assistant shortly after the whole Moriarty incident. Mrs. Hudson was off at morning tea with a few old friends of hers a she always did on Tuesdays. So why would he go there?

“Ahhh,” he breathed, a faint smile on his face as he turned to look back out the window. “Of course.”

“What was that sir?” the driver asked glancing back at Sherlock.

“It’s nothing,” he mused, running his gloved finger over his lips. “Just drive.” When he stepped out onto the street, ten minutes later, he felt... different. He couldn’t get over the surge of joy that being in this familiar place brought him. It made him both happy and unsettled.

He started to reach for the extra key when something caught his eye. It was a note taped to the door in thick bold print.

Come in S.H. –H.H.

He glared slightly at the note before twisting the handle and entering the familiar dwellings. He walked up the stairs quickly and quietly. He could hear the rather loud music echoing off the walls but he also knew that the blind’s hearing was better than any ordinary persons. He entered the living room quietly and glanced around. Everything was as he’d last seen it. Maybe tidied up a bit but virtually untouched.

Turning the corner he saw a radio placed on top of the table that was once covered in his experiments. Plugged into said radio was a small mp3 player from which the music was playing. The Girl was dancing around the table, her careful hands running along the appliances as she moved to the music.

Sherlock stood in the door way and watched her move. Her light white sun dress swayed around her as she spun around to cross to the other side of the kitchen. Her light hair was tied back in two braids and combine with the dress made her look very young. Sherlock was amazed at how small she was, or looked at least; she moved too much for him to get a good read on her.

“But here’s my number,” she sang as she danced. “so call me maybe.”

He rolled his eyes as continued to watch her. Her small hands opened every cabinet and drawer feeling its contents as she danced to the song. Just as she reached the end of her exploration she moved back, towards him. He stepped back to avoid collision but she surprised him by spinning suddenly over to the dishwasher. The floor creaked beneath his foot and he froze, waiting for her to say something.

But she didn’t. She didn’t even hesitate in her dance as she opened the dishwasher and began to put away the clean dishes. He raised an eyebrow, why didn’t she hear him? The music was fairly loud but if he heard it she defiantly should have heard it.

“You should go,” she said suddenly as she moved to turn the music down. “Mrs. Hudson will be back in five minutes and you wouldn’t want to be caught alive when you’re dead.” he glanced at his watch and realized he’d been there for the better part of two hours and she was right, Mrs. Hudson would be back in five minutes. “And if you wouldn’t mind grabbing the note I left you off the doorknob? Don’t need her asking questions now do we?”

Without a word he turned to walk out the door and flagged down the first taxi he saw. He took it back to Molly’s house where he stood in the living room not sure of what to do next. What was he going to do before his trip to Bakers Street? He couldn’t remember. That Girl… she’d hypnotized him, drugged him, she did something to him that made him loose track of time but what?

A few hours later Molly came home and Sherlock was standing in the window playing his violin again. She declared she needed a shower before walking away to her bathroom and locking the door.

Molly’s shower was heaven. She could feel the stress leave her body as the warm water flowed over her. She was so content that she didn’t realize, just outside the bathroom door in the living room Sherlock stood against the window frame. His violin was put away and his cold eyes watch the London streets. In his hand the crumpled remains of a note.


End file.
